Pain Is So Close To Pleasure
by TheVargasSisters
Summary: We all know England and France have had a turbulent relationship, but what happens when France saves England from a terrible accident? Fabulous summary, right? FrUK, with slight Spamano and AmChelles, but you don't need to squint. AmChelles is America x Seychelles, which really ought to be more popular
1. Chapter 1

France nibbled on the end of his pen, pausing only in his writing to stare out of the window. Well, what else was there to say about England? That he got drunk a lot? That he saw fairies and unicorns?

..That he really was rather cute when he wasn't talking?

He smiled and shook his head, clearing it of such thoughts. He was a flirt, after all, and freely acknowledged that his thought process went the exact same way with pretty much anyone who was good-looking. But, therein lay the problem. Those other people usually thought highly of him in return, and so it was simple: A little flirting, then the power of suggestion being applied, and before his new fixation knew if, they were having the best night of their lives. Yet, somehow, he could not manage to win England over. If he even encroached upon the subject of love, he would receive a cold glare, and, if he was close enough, maybe a kick in the leg. Of course, that only really turned him on even more, but how was poor little virgin England to know that? The very notion that England could understand love made France smile.

Such irony.

He finished writing the letter to his friend, Belgium, and sealed it, intending to post it later. But, right now, according to his watch, it was time for the meeting! This meant hours of being stuck in a seat next to England...

He laughed.

"_Bien_!"

Oh, no... It was the Frog. The bloody flamboyant Frenchman who would always wink at him or blow kisses. Ugh...

England suspected that it would escalate into yet another fight. But, really, did old Frog-Face-France _have_ to be so obnoxiously flirty? Although, England mused, there wasn't anything particularly froggy about him, apart from that he was French, and, being a gentleman, England tended to try hard not to stereotype.

He repressed a shudder as France slid into the seat next to him.

"_Bonjour_,_ mon cher_," France muttered. Arthur felt strange chills go up his spine.

"Good day to you, too. Now, please tell me what the last part meant," England ground out. In reply, he got the Frog's characteristic laughter resounding through his head. One day, he was sure; it would give him the mother of all headaches.

America immediately jumped up to start the meeting with a cry of, "Dudes! We're all totally here and all, so this meeting can finally begin! Now, tell me your problems, so that I, the hero, may solve 'em."

England would never get used to that ridiculous attitude, or the equally absurd cowlick that America had. And then there was creepy Russia, who always had a smile on his cute face. Said smile was, in fact, terrifying. But, yet, he couldn't tear his thoughts away from the Frog for too long, which was worrying. But what self-respecting, normal man would go around in a bright blue coat and 'cloak', flirting with anything he thought was beautiful?

Ah, yes, France was not normal. He'd probably screw a rock if he thought it was beautiful enough. England dearly prayed that he would not undergo the same treatment as that rock.


	2. Chapter 2

The meeting dragged on, with little consequence, apart from the little escapade in which Romano thought he saw a mouse and jumped onto Spain's lap, screaming to be saved, at which Spain grinned widely. The 'mouse' turned out to be one of England's scones that had turned an unhealthy shade of grey after it had been forsaken under the table during the last meeting. Russia promised to have words with the cleaner, at which point England decided it would be a good idea not to stick around for that, and to leave as soon as it ended.

Turning to leave after he pushed his chair in, he saw America careering out of the room, like a hyperactive horse. England took a step towards him, meaning to say something, until America smashed into a large dresser.

"Bloody hell! Are you all right?" England asked, walking forwards to help him. America jauntily waved it off and continued running out. England wondered why he was so eager to leave, until he saw America embrace a beautiful girl in a blue dress. Well, problem solved.

And then England heard the dresser creak. He turned to look at it and found that it was, strangely enough, falling, and towards him, as well. This was an odd occurrence, and as England's brain hadn't quite managed to process the information that he was going to get hurt yet, all he could do was stare as the dresser toppled towards him.

Then, two things happened. England saw a streak of red and blue coming at him from out of the corner of his eye -_is it that spidery fellow that America's always going on about? _- and then felt a pair of strong arms coming up around his waist, lifting him out of the path of the dresser and flying back with him, due to the blue-and-red thing's own momentum. They rolled a bit, before they came to a stop, side by side. England was a little dazed, his saviour's arms around him still, before he recognised the coat.

Oh, no, he didn't owe his life to... the Frog, of all people? Surely..?

"You must be more careful, petit lapin. I can't be around to save you _all_ the time, you know," France purred in his ear. England stiffened, blushing, but at the same time, wondering why he hadn't wriggled away yet.

"Well, Frog, you didn't have to save me!" England growled, and engaged the move-away-from-France-quickly-before-he-molests-you function. He then hissed in pain as a full headache became, if possible, even worse. France drew in a sharp breath.

"Mon dieu, you've hurt your head! There's blood everywhere!"

"I'll be fine!" England argued.

"Non, non; I insist. Let me help you," France asserted, ignoring the angry shouts of denial, as he hoisted the other man into his arms. Spain blew a wolf-whistle, while Prussia, France's other best pal, clapped his hands.

If England could have gone redder, he would probably have exploded.

"I'm sure I'll be fine! Please, let me take care of myself," England pleaded. France sighed, and set him carefully on the ground.

"Fine, then," the Frenchman said. "Off you go."

England had taken no more than two steps before stars exploded in front of his eyes, the flower of pain blossoming once again in his head. He sank to one knee, moaning, and this time didn't resent it when France picked him up once more. He felt so sick and dizzy, barely even noticing when he was gently plugged into the car seat. He drifted in and out of a strange sleep on the journey, until the radio turned on and Queen's 'Pain Is So Close To Pleasure' smoothly woke him up. The car eventually rolled quietly to a stop.

"Mon ami, we're here," France told him, reaching across to unbuckle the other man. England barely even responded, which made France worry. His condition was worsening. Perhaps it would have been better to take him to hospital.


	3. Chapter 3

France helped England through the front door and into the downstairs toilet, where he dabbed a flannel onto the injured man's head. England murmured a little; it seemed to calm him down slightly. An array of thought flew through France's head, most of which comprised of him wishing that England's pleasure had been brought on a different way, but he got a hold of himself. England was a guest in his house, and, as such, would be treated with the utmost respect.

Abruptly, England's forest-green eyes opened fractionally. "Well, thank God... you're not being..." He trailed off again, leaving France to smile, in the knowledge of the last word the Brit would have said.

England awoke, tucked up in a bed. The first thing he noticed was that he evidently hadn't been asleep long, as it seemed to be night: the curtains were closed and the lights were on, dimly. The second thing he noticed was that he was in different clothes, which smelled different. The third thing he noticed was how nice they smelled. The scent alerted itself to his attention as being cinnamon, a faint scent of wine and vanilla.

Fourth, France was lounging next to him, smiling as the realisation of what could have happened dawned on England's face.

"Bloody hell, Frog, what did you do to me?" England choked out, scrambling away from him.

"..You... don't remember? I cleared up your head wound," France replied, looking for all the world like a dog must when it thinks it has done something good, and its master informs it otherwise.

England stared at the other man for a moment, until his memory came back to him. "Oh... that. Yes, thank you very much, but I think I'm healthy enough to go home now."

"Non, c'est ne pas vrai," France objected. Having no idea what that meant, and not particularly caring anyway, England began to get out of the bed, ignoring, albeit with a shudder, the fact that he also seemed to be wearing new underwear.

France's arm came down in front of him, stopping him from moving. He was pulled back, roughly, into the Frenchman's chest.

"If you had bothered to listen in your French lessons, Angleterre, you would have realised I said that that is not true," France muttered. His breath ghosted over the side of England's face, making him shudder again. Yet he found that he didn't want to move, wrapped up in the arms of someone he was supposed to have hated for all of eternity. Well, the past few hundred years had obviously been a bloody great lie, then, hadn't they?

"So, I'm... indebted to you, then?" England asked in a very small voice, butterflies neglecting their perches in his stomach and crashing around like America at the very thought.

"Oui, but I won't push you too hard," the other man snickered in his ear, England moaned in distress. Couldn't France have just said that it was some sort of one-off? Although, he supposed, that would really be going against the rules of etiquette.

"Fine, then," he sighed. "What am I to do?"

"First, you're going to stay in bed and get better, mon cher, until you're well enough to help around my gorgeous house," the Frog trilled, almost in a soprano, as if this were all a musical of his big dreams, as he leapt graciously from the bed. England sighed, gruffly, and sank into the pillows. So, that was how it was going to be, then. France would heal him (the methods of which England didn't even want his thoughts encroaching upon), and then, England supposed, he would have to make it up to the other man. But, put quite simply, he found the prospect of that to be very daunting. The sound of France skipping downstairs broke him out of his reverie, at which point, England found it a good idea to be 'asleep' for most of the time.

As it turned out, he couldn't decide whether the consequences of this plan were good or bad.


	4. Chapter 4

France came back up again with some hot, buttered toast on a plate, which was covered by a dish-type thing, to apparently, keep it warm. Yet, upon seeing his Angleterre so calm, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, France found it hard not to go over there and just take him. But, still, that would have been evil. He set the plate on the bedside table, opened the curtains, to let the morning sun in, and looked at the Brit again. Ah, if only he was this quiet all the time. It made him so much more than lovable.

Still, France would have to find a way to satisfy that love he felt, swirling around inside himself. He bent down, and very softly, just touched England's lips with his own, but quickly, so as not to interrupt the flow of the other's breathing. Yet, both of them were quite unprepared for what came next.

England's hand slid up to France's blonde hair -_so, he was faking, hmm?_ - and stayed there, keeping him in. Out went all thought of being careful. France's hand caressed England's cheek, finally being able to explore every curve of that beautiful face without being slapped away or reprimanded, as he slid gently onto the other man in a straddle.

England's breath hitched in his throat. So, he had fallen for the Frog, then. France slowly, reluctantly pulled out of the kiss. England stared at him for a moment until his face turned red, and he had to look away. As it turned out, this was where two fairies happened to be perched on top of a mirror, giggling at the two men. England's eyes grew wide and he made a 'shoo, shoo!' gesture with his hand. The fairies had one last laughing fit before they flitted out of the slightly open window. England's gaze finally settled on the covered dish.

"What would that be?" he carefully asked. Bending over to the dish (and putting weight on a place that England had never known to be so pleasurable), with a smooth flick of the wrist, France pulled off the cover. England heard his stomach rumble, embarrassingly loudly.

"How long was I asleep?" he questioned, realising that his earlier assumption of not having slept very long at all was quite far off the mark, as portrayed by the daylight streaming in through the windows.

"C'est le matin, mon petit lapin. And so that is your breakfast," came the reply. England nodded and made to sit up, against the headboard. France slid off him and picked up the dish, setting it in front of him.

"Please, don't watch me eat," England sighed.

"Ah, sorry!" France cried, and left England in peace, but not before a quick kiss on the cheek. England rolled his eyes, smiled, and tucked into his breakfast. He'd never expected to end up having a man as his lover, especially the one with whom he'd had a rivalry as old as time, but... this just seemed right. He felt happy in France's embrace, and for the first time in a while, completely at peace with himself. Though, he sadly contemplated, the fights wouldn't be far behind, unless they could both keep a lid on their tempers.

He still hated and feared to think exactly how Francis would take things out on him. They fought at the meetings ever such a lot, too.

_You know how he'd end up winning things_, his mind told him.

The lyrics from the song echoed in his head.

'Ooh-ooh... Pain is so close to pleasure...'

* * *

**A.N:**

**Thank you for reading! I hope this is okay, it's only been half beta'd by my sister and I.**

**This is my first fanfiction! Ve, I beat Lovi to it~**

**She owes me some pasta. We took a bet.**

**Thank you again!**

**Feli~**


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